The Beauty of Her Fight...

It has been a while since I have been able to put pen to paper now, and you of all people know that. But for this, I shall try, for this is my gift to you: your story in my words, so that you can realize the beauty of your fight…
You have always said that words are the only form of immortality people are capable of, and so this is what ill give you as our paths diverge, a small fragment of immortality. It won’t be read by many, maybe by no one at all, but I know how much it’ll mean to you…
Best of Luck, Sweetheart!

You couldn’t possibly meet her and remain impartial. There was something so totally alluring about her, that you couldn’t but sit up and take notice. Maybe it was that mysterious air that surrounded her, or the fact that in her eyes you could see both the beauty of life and the dullness of death in equal intensity, or maybe simply because just looking at her gives rise to so many contradictions, that you are left baffled, confused, not sure of what to really think. It was that certain “aura” of hers that guaranteed her the ultimate envy of every girl and the infallible admiration of every guy present. She wasn’t exceedingly beautiful, yet it never mattered, her other characteristics made her beauty of no relevance or priority. Still, she never seemed aware of the effect she had on people. Maybe because she never noticed them, no not out of haughtiness or pride; she was nothing of that sort, but just simply because of that great sense of exaltation that so frequently possessed her and left her oblivious of her surroundings. I remember the first day I met her; she was the “craziest” addition to our group of friends. I can’t deny that I felt a direct bond with her; she possessed that certain kind of raw, naive happiness that seemed untouched by the cruelty of life. That obvious contradiction between us was strangely what led to a strong friendship. I saw in her the naivety I lost to the world, and she- well she said she saw in me a sense of control she aspired to. The comment, at that time, seemed vague: she seemed to be in control more than any of us, and yet no questions were asked, it wasn’t open for discussion. As the months progressed, we became friends- close friends- in the sense that we understood each other all too well yet the personal aspects of our lives remained hidden, not to be tampered with. With time, I started realizing that there lay a profound sadness in those seemingly dead eyes, a sadness that often went on unnoticed because of that radiating smile that kept the illusion alive. But she wasn’t ready to let her defenses down, not yet. I started noticing her little quirks, and I know she noticed mine, we knew each other too well now to believe that things were simply what they seemed. I noticed that her little funny attempts were means to cover up pain or weakness, but I had no base for my speculations, except my lack of faith in an imperfect world. And so I didn’t pursue my speculations any further, I let them remain as just that, speculations, fearing that if I did more I’ll jeopardize my friendship with the one person who was capable of understanding me. I learned to let things move at their own pace, that my curiosity had to respect the boundaries it was placed in, and that everything will be unraveled at the right time…

…And that time came, in the form of a hasty, panicky text message one October afternoon. It left me startled for the first instant for the text message was nothing like her. No jokes, no laugh-out-louds, just two simple solemn sentences: “Pick me up. I have to get out of here NOW.” As I drove to her house, part of me kept hoping this would be some kind of joke, but I knew her better. I knew the dam had finally broken, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for what lay behind it…

…She entered the car quietly, her tear stained face no longer harbored that radiant smile, there was no need for it now: the illusion had faded away. I opened my mouth to say something, but she interrupted, “No questions, please. Later. Just drive around for a while.” I complied; silence seemed far more convenient than any of the banal words I had to offer. I could sense her silently weeping in the passenger’s seat, a muffled cry escaping her every once in a while. As the car gained speed on the empty village roads, she stuck her head out of the window, the wind harshly blowing against her face. A faint shadow of a smile seemed to materialize on her thin, quivering lips as if in remembrance of a fond memory. Ironically, instead of instigating pain, the cold thrashing of the wind seemed to bring forth a sense of peace and comfort. As I contemplated that idea, an uncontrollable shriek escaped her as she retreated back into the car:

“No!” she cried, “I’m not that person anymore!”

All that was happening made no sense to me at all. To some extent, I would even say I was scared. There in my car, that October day, it was evident a battle was being fought, and there was no way of knowing who would come out on top…

…A few minutes later, she asked to go back to my house…

…Sitting in our spot, on the top of our unfinished rooftop, she told me her story. I can’t really explain why that place had grown to be of such importance to us. But there was something so special about that unfinished rooftop: a twisted sense of defiance encompassed in sitting there, tucked away safely, yet knowing that the possibility of death lurked just around the corner. It was on that rooftop overlooking the valley that her mask finally fell off and the image of the neat, picture perfect life shattered. It was on that rooftop, that the world witnessed another innocent spirit being maimed by the brutality of this life…
…She was the first-born child to a very happy family. She has vague memories of her childhood, happy ones: gifts, love, laughter, the kind of memories one cherishes forever. However, with time, her fairy-tale existence seemed to disintegrate as it came more and more in contact with the real world, the world that had no place for fairytales, the world where love and laughter seemed to be a privilege not many were entitled to. The fairytale had turned sour, yet she held on strongly to the shattered pieces, she wasn’t ready to surrender to their real world yet. She doesn’t deny that there were certain moments of warmth and love that came to the surface every now and then, but such moments were so rare, that they would easily get lost in the midst of the constant bickering and unrelenting screams. She recalls sitting in the corner, her knees curled up to her chest, her hands covering her ears, rocking softly, slowly losing herself into her own world, their screams fading away gradually in the background. She recalls how often she used to stick her head out of the car window, as it sped along the roads, the cold wind piercing her soft childish skin. The painful wind, drowning the chaos inside the car, became a welcome alternative to the charged atmosphere within the car. With time, she learned to control the pain, even more, she learned to love it. It was no longer an alternative, it became a necessity…

…As she grew older, she gained a deeper understanding of this world and she became more aware of the reasons behind her unhappiness. Moreover, she became aware of how helpless she was, of her inability to change the bitter reality she lived in. With that new-found awareness of hers, the painful comfort of the thrashing wind no longer satisfied her. She was too conscious of what was going on around her to be comforted by that simple transient detachment from reality. She needed more, yet she didn’t know what it was that she was searching for. Comfort to her had become so deeply correlated with pain that she no longer knew how to seek it. It was in that vulnerable period of her life that she discovered self-mutilation, precisely in an English midterm exam. Coincidence? She doesn’t think so; this life is way too treacherous to make way for coincidence. It finds a way to keep us constantly placed somewhere in between the tug of the “right” and the lure of the “wrong”. It is in that shifting chasm that life tests us: our strength, our courage, but most of all our judgment. And it was at that time, that a lost, terrified, innocent girl sat huddled in her bathtub, crying hysterically, and made the worst choice of her life...

…On the outside, life progressed normally, and on the inside, she continued mutilating herself religiously every night. She had developed the crazy notion that if she could make the outside of her body look as bad as the inside felt, the pain shredding her on the inside wouldn’t be so horrific. She can’t really explain why she did it, not even now as she looks back. Maybe she was trying to get their attention, or simply gain some control over her life no matter in what way. All she knew was that that physical pain was the only thing capable, at that time, of relieving her from the emotional pain. Slowly, she became addicted to cutting and the ritual slowly escalated: from simple slashes, to cuts, and then even deeper cuts. The more she hurt herself physically, the more immune to physical pain she became, and the more pain it took her to gain her so-called “relief” next time.

“I don’t really know who to blame.” She said “Life did provide me with the shovel, but I dug up my grave all on my own, with my bare hands.”

…Her awakening came during one of the lowest points in her life. She remembers looking frantically in her drawers for something to stop the bleeding that had gone out of control, when she came across an old picture of her and her family during one of her birthdays. She sat for hours in her room afterwards, staring blankly at that picture: happy moments from a time long gone. For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to think of her childhood, to remember the innocence, and those rare yet happy moments. For the first time in a long time she allowed that child she had buried deep inside, rise to the surface and be heard. Sitting there in her room, photograph clutched dearly to her chest, she decided she deserved more…

…It wasn’t easy: the pain inside her demanded to be satisfied and the innocent child residing within pleaded to be given another chance to live. The battle inside was grueling, but this time she was determined not to give in. From then on she was determined it will be all uphill. She starved the need for pain and nourished the frail child, and whenever matters sent her in search of a razor, she picked up a pen and wrote. She no longer allowed her parents’ clashes to affect her. She learned how to shield herself and finally understood what people meant when they said selfishness could be a virtue…

…She started living for herself. She started seeing life as a gift rather than a constant battle aimed at breaking her. She gained a positive perspective on life; however, it all disintegrated when she saw her scarred body. She learned that she couldn’t let go of her past, but that she could come to terms with it. And so she did. She stopped trying to hide her scarred body, but focused more or developing a peaceful, content image. She worked so hard on perfecting that image that when people saw her they were so taken by it that no one noticed the scarred girl.
“It fools everyone,” she said “People are so awed by the flawlessness, by something they encounter so rarely that they are afraid to ask questions. It is so much easier to succumb to the illusion.”

She stood up getting ready to leave.

“I thought I had shielded myself from their disputes, I thought they couldn’t affect me anymore. But you know what triggered all this? They are getting divorced.”

She stood there in silence. Her words hung densely in the crisp October air.

…On that unfinished rooftop, that October morning, that scarred body stood in front of me in all its unsightly splendor. And on that unfinished rooftop, that October morning, all I could see was the beauty of her fight…

“We delude ourselves about the neatness of life. The truth is no life is neat. Those we see- and those we read about- seem to possess neatness only because we know so little about them. The hidden sprawl behind the face at the door is always vast. Every life is beset by its unseen demons-avarice, jealousy, deceit, lust, violence, paranoia. There is no neatness in any life- great or small. It is only an illusion men foolishly pursue. The face at the door is just that- the face at the door. All lived lives are a mess."

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I have been told ( and thank God you guys kept it in private) that i have failed blogging miserably!

"Stef, the whole point is updating daily!"

lol..well in my defense, Meriam Webster defines blog as:

Blog noun [short for Weblog] (1999) : a Web site that contains an online personal journal with reflections, comments, and often hyperlinks provided by the writer

So basically, as long as i keep on coming back here every once in a while, im clear! :)